An Empty Note for Nobody
by Jagger3
Summary: The Summoner has had enough of this war. He goes to find an end to it for himself and finds the most unlikely and unfunny savior.


_My sincerest regrets to…_

To who? Who were you even writing this fucking letter to anyway? Your hand hovers over the paper and a growl builds in your chest. You're so frustrated, so empty, so fed up with everything.

Your matesprit was using you to get back at an old enemy, you were her path of revenge. When you found out, you put your lance through her body.

You have been fighting this war for too long, and it wasn't really your war to begin with. It was always His. His, with the bright red blood and words like fire that brought alive the secret yearnings of all the warm bloods, yourself included.

Your wings flutter in agitation as you stare blankly at the paper. Maybe you should write this just for yourself. Sort out the last of the cobwebs in your mind just so you can have a moment of peace.

_I don't regret a fucking thing._

But you do. You regret picking up your lance and calling together all the low bloods under _His_ name. You regret accepting the title they gave you; Summoner. Summoner of what? What the hell did that mean? Did they think they were being clever with that stupid jibe at your psychic powers?

_I'm sick and tired of all of this crap. This is not my war._

But it is your war. You are one of them. You are a fellow low blood, a shit blood, fighting against the tyranny of cold hearted bastards with ice in their veins.

_I hate all of you. Myself the most. I'm sorry._

You are sorry. You are sorry you couldn't give them what they wanted, sorry you couldn't do what even _He_ couldn't. You'd done your fair share, and you knew your name would be remembered. It would be mentioned as a footnote, right after they finished describing _His_ Last Sermon. Would they mention this note? Should you try and make it more formal? Or true?

_I don't want to do this anymore. I just want to sleep._

You are so tired…

_Goodbye and good riddance. _

Never let it be said that you were a kind, humble little shit blood.

You stand and let your wings unfurl, stretching them out and then moving numbly to your door. You know where you need to go to complete this. The letter remains behind you. Nobody will check your hive when you're gone.

You leave with your lance and a hollow heart.

Raids are not uncommon during wartime. You fly over the land and look for smoke and listen for screams. The wind is rushing past your body and you think that if you had to miss anything once you were dead, flying would be it.

Smoke curls to the sky like the fingers of a victim, and you spot it automatically. You angle your wings and sweep off towards it. Nothing feels real as you land outside the village currently being attacked.

Trolls scream and run from the hoard of cold bloods washing through like a wave. Some stand and fight, and are quickly torn to pieces. Some resistance is being put up though, and you hear someone screech your name in relief. They think you are here to save them.

You draw your lance and dart into the fray.

Trolls instantly gravitate to you to fight for you and against you. You know how you look; an impressive figure looming out over all the low bloods, here to lead them to victory against the hated oppressors. With your long horns and massive wings you appear as an intimidating and hopeful figure.

You tell the low bloods to run.

They look at you as you step forward and knock a blue blood off her feet and into a charging seadweller.

"_Go,_" you order, not wanting any more innocents to die. Despite everything, you do care about that.

Their grateful smiles don't touch you as they brush your arm and wish you luck, offering hurried blessings from _Him_, and then flee. Most of them will make it, though the ground is slick with blood.

It's just you against dozens.

They only hesitate marginally when you flare your wings and roar, daring them all at once to come and take you down. They're not stupid. They know who you are.

They swarm you from all sides.

The smart thing to do would be to fly upwards at the last minute and let them crash into each other and hopefully kill one another. But their deaths aren't what you want right now. So you let them come, stand your ground, and then wield your lance like a staff.

You break arms, legs, kill many, because despite everything you sure as hell aren't going down without a fight.

Laughter explodes out around you and you curse as you realize there are juggalos mixed in this group. Sick, twisted clown fucks.

Your lance shoves through a seadweller and the look of pure surprise on his face makes you feel even more exhausted.

Then pain explodes on your left shoulder and you go down screaming. Someone had hit you with something, you don't know what, but the pain went down to your wing-joint and _oh god it hurt yes good more pain please I want to feel something._

You snarl, lips warping into a smile that makes those nearest to you back up in alarm. You lunge forward and drive your lance deep into another troll, only to have it wrenched from your hands as they fall backwards. Now you're unarmed.

One troll rushes forward, and before you can stop yourself you leap on them and sink your teeth into their neck. They scream so loud and brokenly that you howl along with them, seized up by pure feral instinct. Blood is everywhere and pain is all over, they're raking you with their claws as you rip out their throat with your teeth.

More pain from behind you, someone is yelling and trolls are pulling you down and stabbing, kicking, hitting you so hard.

Everything is fuzzing out and your mouth tastes like cold slime. It hurts, it hurts so badly but you're finally feeling something after all this time. You leer at them and then scream as someone drives a spear into your leg.

Then they're gone, and someone new is looming over you.

It's getting too dark to see, but you growl anyway and bare your teeth.

They laugh, and then it all goes black.

_Did it work? Am I dead? Please let me be dead. _

You slowly open your eyes and groan, more out of sheer annoyance for still being alive than the fact that your body feels like it's been a bark-beast's chew toy.

"Looks like the mutant shit blood is coming around! Haha, fucking miracle, what did I say?"

You pause. That is not a voice you know, and it sure as hell doesn't make you feel very good. You open your eyes wider and blink, things starting to swarm into shapes and colors. You in a…room? A bedroom? Who's bedroom? Oh crap that's a lot of purple…

"I'm over here, motherfucker," the voice said with dry amusement.

You turn your head and see one of the fucking scariest trolls ever sitting beside you and grinning like you just said the funniest fucking joke ever and he's waiting for the punchline.

You stare at him, taking in the impossibly tall curved horns, wild hair, and meticulous face paint. Oh for the love of the sufferer—_HAH!—_you had to be captured by a fucking juggalo? And not just any juggalo. The Grand Highblood.

"I'm…not dead," you say, to clarify your worst fear.

The grin got bigger, "Gave it your best fucking shot, shit blood, but no."

You snarl weakly, "Fuck you! I—ow—fuck!" You try to sit up and strangle him, and then maybe yourself, before he's pushing you down and chiding you mockingly.

"Now now motherfucker, IS THAT ANYWAY TO THANK ME FOR SAVING YOUR WORTHLESS HIDE?"

The rise in his voice doesn't even make you flinch, you just feel a surge of hatred, "What the FUCK made you think I wanted to be saved? You _stupid clown!_"

He looks a little surprised that you're not tripping over yourself to thank him, "Motherfucker, your arm was just above severed from your GOD DAMN BODY. Why in the fuck would you want that?"

You bare your teeth at him, "None of your fucking business you horn-honking freak!"

The Grand Highblood only laughs which just makes you even angrier.

"I—oh fuck you!" You do manage to sit up this time and find that your injuries are, for the most part, bearable. Your left arm hurts like a bitch and you don't have all your feeling in your left hand anymore, but everything has been stitched up nice and clean.

His grin turns into a lecherous sneer, "Let's get some shit straight, motherfucker. You and your miraculous wings are gonna get pinned above the alter of my god damn church for all to laugh at unless you get your shit together."

But you don't care. You couldn't give less of a fuck if you tried.

Instead you launch yourself at him, snarling obscenities that would have made your lusus wash your mouth out.

He clearly wasn't expecting such a god awfully stupid move because you hit him square in the chest and send the two of you back on the floor in a tangle of limbs and swears.

He is _strong_ but you are mad as hell. He took away your death and _healed_ you just so he could have your fucking mutation for his god awful clown church. You knew he didn't spare you for sentiment—you are (were?) the leader to the uprising, you are his greatest enemy. You are a political prisoner, and you are not going to put up with this bullshit.

But you don't try to run. You stay on top of him, clawing at his face and spitting hell fire as he snarls back at you and hits all your wounds to try and subdue you.

You just get angrier. Everything is anger and fire and rage and you want him _dead_ but not really. This thought confuses you long enough for him to hit you on the base of one of your horns and make you tumble off in shock.

Now he's on top of you, teeth snapping at your throat as you buck wildly, trying to get him off so you can wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze the life out of him.

Your hands find his grub scars and you dig your nails into them, earning a guttural groan that pierces through the thick fog in your mind. You suddenly attack him with a different kind of vigor, intent on getting back on top of the bastard who _dared_ to save your life.

He's laughing in a way that makes your blood electrify and his hands are on your horns again. He slams your head to the ground and you gasp, seeing stars. He's holding you right at the base of them, sending thick, hot signals to your mind and making you squirm underneath him and groan. It's dizzying and you can't think straight. His fingers are rubbing your horn bed and you chirr deep in your throat, unable to stop it.

He stops laughing when you rake your claws across his face.

He jerks back with a curse and you surge upwards after him, slamming him against the wall in an awkwardly kneeling position. Your mouth finds his neck and you have a brief flash of what it felt like to bite out another trolls throat. Your wings flutter and you move to his shoulder instead, biting down until he swears and punches your leg were someone stabbed you.

You yelp and bite down harder, rubbing your hips against his and smirking when he groans. Then it's your turn to groan when his fingers find the base of your wings and grabs them. You keen and arch up, mouth open in shock. You've never been able to reach back there, so you had no idea that this was a thing. But _oh was it_.

He knew he had you. You were once again pressed down on the floor, his cold hands tearing at your clothes as you shredded his right off him in return. Your mind felt bright and sharp like a new blade and he was the whetstone that made sure you didn't fucking miss a second of it.

You both are dripping when everything is finally removed, and he doesn't seem to mind this time when you roll the two of you over so you can claw and bite at him more thoroughly. Your wings flare out behind you and he growls appreciatively, dragging his claws over your hips and baring his fangs at you in a challenge.

You can feel his bulge against your thigh and you don't hesitate to shift farther up so it can find the slick, hot entrance of your nook.

He snarls eagerly as it pushes inside you all at once, and you bitch at how cold he is which only makes him laugh deep in his chest.

You wrap your hand around your bulge and fuck yourself on him, eyes bright with hatred as he leers up at you mockingly.

Then his hands are on your hips and he's got his bulge as deep in your nook as possible and you're swearing and moaning and _oh god please more_.

You must've said it aloud because he make a noise that goes straight to your bulge as his own begins to writhe and move inside of you. It rubs against something and you see white, your body jerking and your throat raw from screaming.

Your free hand is clawing bloody purple lines down his chest which only makes him moan louder, the sick bastard, but oh when he does it to you, you can understand the appeal.

You don't realize you've leaned over him before you notice you're resting on your forearms on either side of his head while his bulge thrashes around inside of you and making you cry out pleasurably. He brings you closer and suddenly you're kissing him and oh god he's got a hand on your bulge.

You snarl and growl against his lips but you kiss him with all the hatred and bitterness you have inside of you. He responds in kind, and it's becoming too much too fast and you _know_ he knows because he only goes faster and harder and _oh fuck you're getting close!_

He finishes first, sending a gush of cold genetic material into your nook which makes you shudder almost violently, but then he gives your bulge a squeeze and slides two fingers into your already full nook and you scream as you come.

When your mind finally returns back to Alternia he's got a shit eating smile so wide it makes you snarl weakly at him in complaint.

"I didn't realize a brother wanted to get his pitch on _that badly_," he purrs, and you flush indignantly.

"It's your fucking fault for saving me, you stupid clown," you grumble, shifting off of him and then hissing as he pulls you back against his cold body.

"Ain't none of that unfunny shit happening again," he murmurs to you, voice soft and deadly, "you gonna kill yourself, you better fucking do it in a way that makes the messiahs laugh all the way back to their dark carnival, got it?"

You look at him in shock. He saved your life, had a pitch-fling with you, and now is lecturing you on suicide? What the ever loving fuck?

"Who _are_ you?" You sputter, and then make a very mortified sound as he rolls over and crushes you underneath his body. You swear and hit him a few times, but give up once you realize he isn't planning on moving anywhere.

"You can call me Makara, I guess," he grumbles, like it's a big personal favor and he's gone out of his way to tell you that.

You scoff but don't say anything else for the time being because for the first time in sweeps, your blood is boiling but your mind is at peace.

_Fuck_ this clown.

The End.


End file.
